10
“George is absorbed in Amelia and admires and likes her. Maybe he’s in love with her.”
BY THIS TIME, MY GRANDFATHER AND Amelia were thrown together constantly. Their working relationship had certainly been a remarkable one, and now that the book was finished, they made plans for an extended speaking tour to promote it.
“George was a workaholic,” recalled his former business associate, Charles (“Cap”) Palmer. “His wife didn’t have to worry about other women. She had to worry about the job.” Now, Amelia had become George’s job.
AUGUST 20, 1928
A perfect day and Amelia flew her “silver bug” for an hour, early. Home by 3 o’clock, then all balled up about going to S.B. to see my family. Very disagreeable altogether. G.P. had a date to swim with A.E. and I upset their plans by being home—and he tried to be sentimental. Followed me up because he was furious. When I came home he and Amelia were busy working.
George and Amelia had tried to keep their affection for one another secret, but gossip among the aviation set was circulating about a love affair between the famous flyer and her powerful business manager. At first, Dorothy could not believe that Amelia would disrupt her marriage, because of their friendship. Still, she was unprepared for the ugly speculation, and welcomed the chance to leave Rye for her long-planned western trip.
For George, there was no doubt that his wife had lost interest in their physical relationship, and by now he suspected she was involved with another man, as her diaries reflect his sudden jealousy.
AUGUST 21, 1928 Packed—Drove to town with A.E. in time to have tea with George. Then took 6:30 train for Chicago. A sad and wearisome unpleasant “scene” with George at dawn. The same old thing, plus suspicions and accusations. Sick headache all day. Bed as soon as train left. Oh, Lord, such a stupid mess is my life.
George and Amelia accompanied Dorothy to the train station and stood watching for a moment as she waved her two outstretched arms before disappearing into the dim compartment of the passenger car. “Train… Dead tired, rather weary at heart and very unsettled in my personal affairs. Can one ever ‘Patch up’ the disillusionments and make a ‘go of things’ again?”
Even on that steamy August day, Dorothy wore a long-sleeved dress and pinned a pale lavender orchid to her lapel. The corsage was an unlikely romantic gesture from George, and Dorothy questioned its significance. Around her neck hung the silver fish pendant. Through the train window she caught a glimpse of her husband with Amelia making their way through the crowd, and for the first time she saw what others had already begun to notice: They were a couple.
AUGUST 23, 1928 Train. Through flat uninviting country where women are fat and with poor complexions and wear magenta or short sleeves on the train! And the backs of mens necks are shaved! Read and dozed all day, pretty worried about leaving when my whole personal “household” is unsettled!
Arriving in Wyoming, Dorothy stepped down from the train and into the husky embrace of Carl Dunrud, the Putnams’ rough-weathered, Arctic explorer friend. She squinted girlishly into the hot sun as he placed his huge cowboy hat on her head.
An even greater delight awaited her: G.W. had managed to make the trip after all, though his presence would prove unsettling.
AUGUST 25, 1928 Cody. Arrived early and Carl, with his ten gallon hat, etc. to meet me! Breakfast at the cafe then off across rolling flat country, oil wells, 55 miles south to the “Double Dee.” Stopped in Meteetsee for vegetables, etc. and a hobo on an oil truck came grinning over to us! G.W.; he’d hitchhiked from Jackson Hole ranch (where he visited Darcy). A great surprise and jolly time all round!! Much fun. Ranch for a fine dinner. Sat around and visited all afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Belden and Mrs. Gene Phelps to call. All hands tired and happy. Big open fire, then bed early.
The next day, after a visit from other prominent cattle ranchers, Dorothy, G.W., Carl, and his partner Cactus, headed up Fork Canyon for an afternoon horseback ride.
The group set up camp and my grandmother requested that her tepee be placed near the stream, but far enough from the commotion of the cook tent and the boisterous male voices. “The boys have a fine tent outfit. Three boys in the big cook tent and my tepee on the river edge, 150 ft. away. The nights are cold, but my sleeping bag is fine and warm, and the sound of the stream is heavenly.” Resting alone before supper, she ached with sadness. G.W. was still attracted to Darcy and had traveled to Wyoming to see her as well. Dorothy knew she would eventually lose him, and began to face the truth: They would never live together as man and wife.
The camp was quiet and G.W. hesitated before breaking the silence. The day had been long, and he knew that Dorothy was tired. After speaking her name, he reached his arm inside the tent and handed her a poem, written on a single piece of paper. She was not a diarist to neglect even the slightest event in her life, and if the entry was particularly significant, she turned to the last pages and recorded it under “Memoranda.” Such is the case with this poem; its yellowed original still exists among her papers.
Light Love 25 August 1928
It will not last, this little love of ours,
But does that matter? Really not a bit,
We will have had one moment exquisite,
And it will vanish like summer flowers,
Blest be our failure—flint in little showers.
Not the great pyrotechnical display of Abelard and Heloise.
One day of love for us beneath these amorous bowers.
Lighter than snow is love that men call light.
Lighter than butterflies swift vagrant wings.
The least snow can make the world more bright
And who refuses what the summer brings?
Blest be all kisses,
And blest be the love that dies before satiety.
—C. H. Towne
Dorothy held the poem in her hand, knowing the two had made the decision together. The time had finally come to let go of the dream. She responded, “… loving teaches us all, we know.… We pass from one phase to another, opening and closing doors on emotions that at the time you were sure were eternal!”
Dorothy had left home unsure of their future, but certain of their everlasting love. When they parted in Wyoming, she believed the affair was over.
She traveled on from Wyoming to Seattle, Mount Rainier, and her old home in Bend, Oregon, before the last stop in Pasadena, California, to visit her ailing brother, June, his wife, and child.
Dorothy often lingered in the dining car with other travelers, and delighted in the company of the cheerful attendant, who continually refilled her water glass and chatted. Her enduring smile attracted strangers to her table and to her side. No one escaped her infectious warmth. She was just as apt to strike up a conversation with the porter as with a passenger in a first-class car.
When morning came, she was transfixed by the lofty Cascade Mountains. It was early autumn in the high country and her diary entries focus painfully on the changing seasons within her own life: “Montana. The autumn flowers give me a little heartache. Why am I sad? The checking off of another year? Do my cycles run from autumn to autumn. The forests are burning here and there. Spokane by dinner time. I have much to think about.”
With the realization that G.W. would no longer be the main focus of her life, she seemed lost and insecure compared to her husband and sister. “George’s birthday—41—he’s keen, successful, has a fine reputation for ingenuity and cleverness. And apparently has what he went after in life.” She envied others who had lived an apparently happier domestic life.
SEPTEMBER 9, 1928 Oregon: Helen’s birthday! And she’s still so slim, pretty and youthful. She has been the ideal wife and mother, I guess, with never a failure all the years. Drove all over town, up top of Pilot butte! There are mowed lawns and flowers and foundations and pavements where I once pushed Dave in his baby carriage across dusty streets.
Nearing Pasadena, she steeled herself for what lay ahead. Her tall, athletic brother was lying helpless in bed near death and her thoughts returned to their youth. A world-class swimmer, June Binney had shattered several records—and roaring cheers from onlookers echoed now in her head. She thought of the day they raced out to the lighthouse and back, and how sheepish he had felt when he won. She remembered his visit to her home in Oregon, when he had traveled west as a teenager on the same train she was now riding. She could not bear to see him ill, or imagine his three-year-old son, Edwin, without a father. Grateful for the privacy that her compartment offered, Dorothy wept, her eyes filling with sorrow as the train pulled to a stop and Betty and little Dwin raced toward it.
SEPTEMBER 12, 1928 Pasadena. Dwin and Betty met me at Glendale. Betty’s house is big and sunny and open with a lovely garden and lily pool. But my heart breaks when I try to describe my dear, sick brother. He’s completely paralyzed, all except his arm! His hair and mustache are black, his face and body, white and thin and colorless. And even his speech is thick and distorted. In bed since April and blind. Oh, God, why should it be!? And not yet 30.
The following day, she and her sister-in-law attended the local air show, expecting to see Amelia. She would find out that Amelia and George had been involved in an airplane accident in Pittsburgh, which had been the cause of Amelia’s late arrival in Los Angeles. “Pasadena—Amelia not arrived in L.A. yet—her plane broken. Went to Air meet with Betty. Saw Lindbergh in some miraculous flying, backpacked and off to train bound East”
When Dorothy returned from the air meet, there was a desperate telegram from George. He had just heard rumors that he and Amelia had become more than business partners and he was worried. “Depressing wire from G.P.—‘Come home, etc.’ Very sad!” For the first time in seventeen years of marriage, he recognized the frightening possibility that he could lose his wife. He pleaded with her to return home immediately, conscious of the fact that her absence only gave credence to the rumors.
And so she was homeward bound. Reclining in the window seat aboard the Sunset Limited, she reached into the bottom of her worn travel case to find the single orchid still pinned to the frayed ribbon. She lifted the wilted flower toward the light and wondered why she had saved his gift. Unfolding its petals, she saw it as a fragile reminder of her loveless marriage. “When I left New York a month ago George gave the one and only orchid ever from him. Why now? Is it significant of our unreal and artificial life, his and mine? It’s a pretense of the thing real married life could be.”
Back in the comfort of her home again, Dorothy’s thoughts were a tangle of emotions.
SEPTEMBER 19, 1928 Flowers, music, and the house. It’s refreshing to be in my own lovely home again, with my own belongings! The robins are already flocking and great metal blue-black clouds or blackbirds drift across the meadows! The touches or scarlet maple are here. Autumn, the brilliant but sad end or my year “cycle.” I’m depressed, yet passionate and elated.
SEPTEMBER 22, 1928 George is determined to have me give up the Africa trip. Just why? Does he want me home? Does he miss me? Are we any pleasure to each other? Scarcely even a “convenience” anymore!
Amelia’s absence from Rocknoll restored Dorothy to her rightful role, however temporarily. “Town late, dinner at Divan Paris with George, then he and I went to opening of Al Jolson’s new ‘talkie’ movie. Songs and some conversation. Sentimental, bored me, maudlin. Great hit.” Following her up the stairs after their night on the town, George explained why Amelia had not reached California in time for the National Air Races. He said that she had crashed her Avro Avian in Pittsburgh. He confessed that he had been with her at the time and had kept it out of the papers. Upon landing, the plane hit an unmarked ditch, spun wildly out of control, and ended up on its side. He added that he had returned to Rye the same day, leaving Amelia behind to repair the considerable damage and deal with the press.
George worried about Amelia’s public image, and the speculation surrounding the two of them could be harmful. For this reason, he invited his wife to join him, Amelia, and David on an Arctic trip the following summer. Dorothy was furious. She knew her husband wanted her only as a chaperone. “I don’t want to go! Yet if I refuse it’s given up and blamed on my temper,”
On September 24, G.W. and his brother Tyler drove down from Yale for an unexpected visit. What began as another lighthearted gathering of friends ended in tears. “Late afternoon Tyler and G.W. drove down from Yale. Coffee in studio. Then the two Weymouths to dinner. A little music, a cold drink and suddenly it is midnight. Yellow Roses from Child. Awfully tired, awfully sad and weary. George in town all night.”
Dorothy was still mourning the change in that relationship as well. “Why should one put oneself in a position of caring so much? Why therefore, be so deeply hurt by another? A farewell, a gesture (or worse a forgotten gesture), a careless word or phrase from one you adore. Oh, can hurt, hurt so acutely. Lordy, I’m a fool! One side of me independent and impervious, another, sensitive, shy, too keen and analytical for my pleasure. Oh, oh, I’m hurt.”
“Light Love” had become their eulogy. Just as Dorothy had transcribed the poem under “Memoranda” at the year’s end of her diary, so had she recorded two indelible dates across the same page. The first is May 19, 1927, the date that represents the birth of her passion; the second memorializes the end of their affair. Carved together across a paper tombstone, the composition is an epitaph:
MAY 19, 1927 A heaven on earth
SEPTEMBER 24, 1928 “To my darling L. from her C” And oh, yellow roses!
Dorothy revealed the stages of her suffering in the pages of her diary: anger, hurt, blame, and finally acceptance.
SEPTEMBER 26, 1928 He thinks of himself as unhappy, but high minded. He is actually a passion-scalded pig. What does goodness matter? One is either happy or unhappy.
SEPTEMBER 27, 1928 I cannot, cannot readjust myself! No amount or exercise, no amount or music and even my worry and sadness over my brother June—nothing seems to divert my present absorption. I cannot for a minute stop my mind going round in its “circle.” It is impossible, unbelievable, can’t be true! Yet.